A Dangerous Game
by HP585
Summary: There was nothing habitual or permanent about their meetings. Sometimes they just happened to be on the same continent. Or the same country. Or city. It wasn't like they kept track of each other.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Not mine

Fingers trail across the small of her back. It's nice, she thinks, to wake up without her mind snapping into awareness. The slow, languid return to consciousness is like sunshine warming an early spring day. Not that she's had time to admire the weather. If she's honest with herself, and she usually is, she can't remember the last time she even wanted to engage in such an activity. Last night's activities, however, were not forgotten. She smiles slowly as she reflects on several memorable moments. Nope, crystal clear.

A light chuckle reverberates through the warm, solid chest that she's sprawled against. She opens her eyes just enough to peek at her companion through lowered lashes. She can almost feel the answering grin as she squeezes them shut again.

"No use pretendin', darlin'." A deep, gravelly voice rumbles, sending all sorts of pleasant vibrations through her body. She shivers and she knows he knows what it does to her.

In retaliation, (and partly for the opening it leads to other activities), she begins to straighten leisurely, stretching her slight frame with catlike grace.

She feels him shift beneath her and opens her eyes to blink somnolently at him. Her smirk widens into a grin as she takes in his hungry gaze, intent on her. His hands tightened inadvertently around her waist. Or maybe on purpose. Either way, she wasn't complaining.

"Morning," she drawled.

"That's a dangerous way to wake up, darlin'. A man can't be blamed for what happens next."

She shrugged a bare shoulder and smirked, hazel eyes never leaving his blue ones. Her fingers trailed up the skin of his ribs, running over muscled skin and puckered scars. She felt his breath catch as he caught her wrist.

"A very dangerous game." He rolled them over until she was pinned beneath him. She squirmed slightly and warmth flooded through her as she watched his eyes darkened.

"Don't worry. I plan on winning." Her eyes flashed a challenge.

He growled and she soon found herself too distracted to even smile at his response.

Yeah, she could get used to this.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Not mine

Eliot was awake. Had been for awhile. Sleeping wasn't something that came easily. At least, not undisturbed sleep. Over the years he had found few exceptions to this rule. Last night had been one of them; she was one of them. He had slept without dreams. A rarity for him and he was fairly certain she knew it too.

Still, his internal clock woke him after only a few hours. A long-since formed habit that had saved his life on multiple occasions. He wasn't about to complain though. Watching her relaxed slumber, listening to her soft, even breaths made a protective instinct within him shift, not unpleasantly. He vaguely wondered why he wasn't more concerned about this feeling. She certainly wouldn't thank him for it.

He watched the shadows fade from her face as the sun rose over the horizon. The sun warmed their bodies and he felt the stirrings of her return to consciousness. Slumber erased the cool, detached personality that kept her tightly coiled in her waking hours. Professionally, he could admire her ability to close off her emotions, compartmentalize, no matter how involved or distracting the job was. He did too.

Personally though, he wished there was a way to keep the haunted look from ever returning to her eyes. _That_ unnerved him. He had his own demons to fight but, damn, if he couldn't help wanting to erase hers. Not that he could. Not that she'd let him.

He watched her edge toward consciousness and knew the exact moment she was truly awake. Her body tensed ever so slightly and he could almost see her shift into wakefulness. She didn't open her eyes though and a ghost of a smile crossed her lips.

He wondered what she was thinking about, but then, her body practically on top of his was reminder enough. He chuckled. He could think of worse ways to greet the morning than with a beautiful woman in his bed. He caught a flicker of movement and grinned.

"No use pretendin' darlin'" Sleep clung to his voice, making it rumble. She shivered against him and he felt his body respond. She extended her lithe torso in a feline stretch across his chest. He shifted involuntarily.

She opened her eyes lazily. She couldn't hide the awareness in their hazel depths, a kaleidoscope of colors that couldn't seem to decide if they were green, or maybe brown, or sometimes black, but it was softened by the smirk on her lips. Hair mussed, bare skin, and all together warm and willing in his arms. Eliot gripped her a little tighter, holding on to this reality, unwilling to let it slip away.

"Morning." She drawled the words out, waiting for his inevitable reaction. His body was hyper aware of her present state of dress, or rather undress.

"That's a dangerous way to wake up, darlin'. A man can't be blamed for what happens next."

She shrugged daintily and he held his breath as her fingers trailed up his side, leaving burning trails of exposed skin in their wake. He forced himself to breath evenly and gently caught her wrist.

"A very dangerous game." He rolled and pinned her beneath him, careful to keep his full weight on his arms. She shifted beneath him and his tenuous hold on his control broke.

"Don't worry. I plan on winning." That damn smirk.

He growled and pulled her to him, losing himself in her arms.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Not mine

There was nothing habitual or permanent about their meetings. Sometimes they just happened to be on the same continent. Or country. Or city. It wasn't like they kept track of each other.

Eliot knew she was headed off to Dubai the next day for a job. He always kept one ear to the ground; he had enemies, after all. It was easier to confront a problem if he knew when and where it was coming from. It wasn't foolproof but having contacts always paid off. If he heard news about her whereabouts, and he was feeling restless, it wasn't too hard to take a job in the same hemisphere.

He wouldn't stay. She wouldn't either. They understood each other that way. It was simple—well, as simple as their lives got. Sometimes it really was just about a familiar face. A drink with a friend.

Friend—a rare word for him. He could count on one hand the number of people he called friends. The list of people who knew he cooked was even shorter. Yet, there she was, sitting on his counter, nursing a beer, telling him a story about a French diplomat and what she did when his hands tried to wander while he diced tomatoes and sautéed mushrooms.

He didn't ask about her business, she didn't ask about his. They both had secrets and both knew more about the other than they let on. It was enough to share a drink and talk.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Not mine

If anyone ever asked, she'd deny keeping tabs on him. It wasn't hard to hear about Eliot Spencer though. She didn't even have to try, not really. Everyone in the business knew he was the best.

She had her own specialty and, fortunately, ran in slightly different circles. She wasn't tasked with bringing anything back on her jobs as he did. Still, they knew many of the same people and people talked.

Word was going around that a business man in L.A. was looking to hire him to retrieve something or other. It explained why he was in the States. If she happened to be nearby, it was merely coincidence (because she didn't believe in luck). She saw no reason not to meet up with an old friend. Maybe get a drink together. Or have dinner. One did _not_ pass up Eliot's cooking. Who could say no to a home-cooked meal? And if it got late and she needed a place to crash…well, the rest was history.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Not mine

He wasn't sure when it became a priority to make sure they didn't get themselves killed every damn day. They were all crazy. Brilliant, intelligent, gifted and crazy. If anyone was going to kill them at this point, it was gonna be him.

_You'd cut off your arm before hurting them._ A voice in the back of his mind told him. He silenced it with a particularly vicious growl.

They'd crept in. Silently, permanently and stole into his life. They were thieves after all. It's what they did best. He didn't think they knew it yet.

Somewhere along the way they'd become necessary to his path to—well, sure as hell not redemption, it was too late for that—but perhaps for his peace of mind. He'd never, ever admit it out loud-Hardison wouldn't let him live it down, Sophie would give him that knowing smile, Parker would try to taze him, and Nate would nod and drink another shot of scotch—they were his family. In all their bat-shit crazy glory.

He trusted them. And Eliot's trust was always earned the hard way. If Nate said he was working on a plan, then Eliot would stall until it was finished; because Nate didn't lose. He told Amy something along those lines in the Two-Horse Job. He was skeptical when she called them his family and slightly horrified at the idea of associating them with such a term. Now though, after numerous successful jobs, movie nights, games watched, meals eaten (that _he_ cooked because he didn't trust _any_ of them near a kitchen), and beers later, he wasn't going anywhere.

His past would catch up with him someday. He knew that. He had plans for multiple scenarios and a dozen contingencies in place for the day it happened. It wasn't something he could just leave behind. He was still the same person, after all. He just hid it better now.

He had a few favors he could call in if he needed to disappear and these geniuses needed a hitter. It wasn't like he was going to leave them leave them without a competent help. They wouldn't last 24 hours against some of his enemies.

Then again, the list of people that would last 24 hours with this particular team of thieves was incredibly short as well.

So he worked backwards: Who would be contracted if he was out of the picture?

She was the first name on his list.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: Not mine

She thought they'd meet up again. Eventually.

Months went by and now she wasn't so sure. After he took that L.A. job, she heard an increasing amount of rumors about a team of thieves with a very distinctive retrieval specialist. A team that anyone smart enough chose to avoid.

She did a little research—for professional purposes, of course— and from what she found, or rather _didn't_ find, indicated they had a pretty good hacker. Hell, better than good. He was one of the best she'd ever seen. Even information about Eliot that everyone knew about seemed to disappear. Files went missing, photos were mysteriously degraded enough to make anyone in them unrecognizable, and absolutely _nothing_ came out of Massachusetts. She figured it was an open secret that they were operating out of Boston now.

She avoided taking contracts in the states. It wasn't perfect, since she knew they took jobs out of the U.S. occasionally, but it lessened the chances of running afoul of them. She had options after all. She wasn't hurting for work. Word from the black market and her less reputable contacts were saying his new team were formidable opponents, ruthlessly cunning, and were often contacted by victims of her preferred type of employer. It just wasn't in her best interests to cross Nate Ford and his team of highly skilled thieves. Or their hitter.

She'd been left with too many thoughts that she couldn't afford the last time they'd met. Dangerous thoughts. Like reasons to get out of the business. She'd spent her flight to India trying to figure out why those thoughts were even occurring. If she didn't know better, she think she'd been drugged. She wasn't though. She'd checked. One night with Eliot was fantastic but even he shouldn't be making her question the last ten years of her life.

The thoughts stayed with her. Job after job, they were a constant presence in the back of her mind. It was getting harder and harder to tell herself that she was only in it for the money. That her persistent nightmares weren't caused by her work. That her victims (and when the _hell_ did random strangers she cared less about become _victims_?) didn't haunt her daily life. She was a _professional_. She was damn good at what she did. Her bank accounts didn't lie. It shouldn't bother her. It _didn't_ bother her.

Except when it did.

She shook it off and took another contract. Just not in the states.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Vadim Novikoff was completely unremarkable. Brown hair, brown eyes, average height, average weight, casual clothing, no remarkable features. Everything about him was utterly unremarkable. A little _too_ unremarkable.

Eliot sat at the bar nearby, nursing a beer, and pretending to watch whatever game was on. The more he listened, the more uncomfortable he became with the man's story. Novikoff seemed genuinely distressed about the situation he'd inadvertently stumbled upon. He was terrified that the consequences of his actions could hurt millions of people and all but begged for Nate's help. It was an artful representation of a naïve engineer in over his head. Eliot was positive the Russian was lying through his teeth.

He waited for Nate's rejection to the ridiculous proposal.

Nate didn't to say no.

Eliot contemplated addiction-and not the alcoholic kind—and wondered if it was going to get them killed.

This wasn't a normal client. _Wasn't_ a normal job. Wasn't _anything_ they should be mixed up in. Damn it, they weren't secret agents. Missile silos were NOT their area of expertise. That last bomb was an exception. Hardison wouldn't always be that lucky. And he didn't believe in luck anyway. His instincts told him this was a bad idea and those instincts had saved his life too many times for him to ignore. He needed to talk some sense into Nate.

* * *

Nate already had another glass of whiskey, half empty, in hand when Eliot arrived.

"What the hell was that, Nate?"

Hardison glanced up from his typing and orange soda. Sophie raised an eyebrow. Parker was sitting on the kitchen counter with a spoon of crushed fortune cookies halfway to her mouth.

"We're the mark." Nate grinned.

A bit too manically, Eliot thought. No further explanation was forthcoming. He felt his completely justified irritation rising.

"Let's go steal a con."

* * *

Not for the first time, he forced his glare from Nate to the blueprints of the needlessly complicated maze of a building where the missile silo security program was housed. The architect for this building should be shot. It was the least efficient building design he'd ever seen.

He felt his irritation at Nate rising again. Nate's refusal to listen to any of his pointed questions about the issues on this job was infuriating. Was he trying to get them killed? Eliot grudgingly admitted that Nate's plans didn't failed. Not that he'd _ever_ say it out loud. Sometimes they were messy and Eliot ended up busting a lot of heads, but they always came through. Damn him.

He passed the blueprints off to Parker and switched to watching the security camera recordings again, his scowl deepening. The most current week of recordings showed that the guards were noticeably more attentive and aware of their surroundings than the previous week. He had Hardison pull up the last month's worth of security footage to confirm his theory. Someone knew the security weaknesses and was fixing them, rapidly. Whoever it was, they were working from experience. Great, this just got better and better.

He memorized the faces of each night guard, their patrol routes, how long it took to complete them, and the weapons they carried. He carefully noted the location of daytime security measures, guards' positions, and general staff movement—wait…he rewound the last few minutes.

Eliot paused the recording on the image of a young, brunette female assistant. Glasses perched on the edge of her nose, conservative clothing, and usually carrying folders or coffee, she looked like a harmless, overworked secretary.

Or she would have, if it not for the six knives (possibly two more depending on the hairdo) and two guns he spotted.

He swore under his breath. _What had that woman gotten herself into?_

He could practically feel Sophie watching him. He didn't look her way.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: Not mine.

She'd spent the better part of the last three weeks mentally cursing for taking this damn job. She was cold. She _hated_ being cold. She wasn't sure when she last felt her toes. After this job was over, she was taking an extended vacation somewhere secluded and warm, with beaches. Definitely beaches.

She was surrounded by dimwitted, hired muscle that she wouldn't trust to hold a spoon, much less an AR-15. She'd almost been shot when one particular idiot thought he heard an intruder in a janitor closet. He no longer had a job…or use of his right hand. It turned out to be a stray cat. She was still trying to figure out how the hell it got inside. Incompetent imbeciles.

Her employer (a.k.a. pompous ass) had an ego to match his millions and wandering hands. Any good feelings she'd harbored about the number of zeros he deposited into her Cayman Islands account were quickly disappearing as the number of times she caught him leering at her rose.

The amateur job the pompous ass used to cover up the truth about the program he was _supposedly_ protecting was laughable. It was pathetically easy to read between the lines of the technical jargon. It boiled down to a bright, naïve engineer hired to write a computer program for the decommission of a missile silo and then disappeared with the information. Right.

She wasn't sure if they honestly expected her to buy the bullshit explanation or expected her to see through it.

She sidestepped another overly friendly hand and continued to review the building security. Her walk-thru of the building, observation of the guards' habits, and review of the security system left her less-than-impressed. Any thief worth their salt could have broken in without breaking a sweat. Blindfolded.

And she was supposed to fix it. She gritted her teeth to avoid the eye roll she felt coming.

She sighed. Her job didn't normally consist of ensuring security measures were in place. She broke through them, eliminated her target, and got out. Nevertheless, she knew what she was looking at and it wasn't good. She restructured the patrols to maximize coverage and close the numerous gaps she found. She taught the half-wits how _not_ to be half-wits and demanded twice as much up front for it. She took point in ensuring that each room, window, and exit in the building was secure. No more damn cats.

After the first muscled idiot protested taking orders from a woman and she broke his arm in three places in eight seconds, they did as they were told like good little minions. She kept a radio on her as she patrolled on her own, always a new route, and never establishing a pattern.

She'd been hired for a month of this crap. Only one week left. She sighed again.


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Sophie was uncomfortable. It was a feeling that she _decidedly_ disliked. It wasn't that her sofa chair was uncomfortable, on the contrary, it was the best seat in the apartment. It wasn't that she was hungry, too hot, or too cold. It wasn't the manic gleam in Nate's eye as he downed yet another glass of scotch. She glared at the offending bottle on the table and its brother residing in the trash can beside the table.

While Nate drinking wasn't exactly breaking news, the tension in Eliot's shoulders and chilling looks he was sending Nate _were_.

She didn't think Hardison and Parker missed it either. They were smart enough to let him work it out on his own. Hardison was studiously avoiding eye contact with either of them, only looking up to locate his orange soda or gummi frogs. Parker was purposely avoiding Nate and Eliot's sightlines and alternating watching them as though witnessing a silent, conversation much like a tennis match and studying the blueprints Eliot handed her.

At this stage of the planning, Sophie's expertise weren't needed. She could have gone home, she supposed, but she settled deeper into her chair. She didn't engage any of them in conversation. She watched; this is what she did. She could be the center of everyone's attention or withdraw to the point of being practically forgotten. It worked incredibly well if her successes over the years were any kind of proof.

She watched as Parker poured over blueprints and cereal, Hardison furiously typed away, and Eliot studied security camera recordings and made notes. Eliot's growling had been increasing in frequency for the last few minutes, then suddenly stopped. From this distance, it looked like he'd paused the recording, but on whom or what she wasn't sure. His eyes narrowed and one of his hands twitched in restrained movement.

She arched an eyebrow; _that_ was interesting.

He saw something on that screen. Something or someone he recognized, perhaps? Considering Eliot's past, she concluded that seemed likely. Like the others, she trusted Eliot. If it was something that would endanger the rest of them, she was positive he would say something. Moreau's face flashed through her mind, and she frowned slightly. Almost positive, she amended reluctantly. What if he was objecting to this job on similar grounds? Did he not want them involved because of some darkness from his past?

Sophie was no fool. She _wanted_ to believe that Eliot wasn't that person, but after Nate's report from the warehouse where Eliot picked up a gun and wrecked devastation upon Moreau's men, she _couldn't_.

He _was_ that person. He never _stopped _being that person. He was still the same man and every day he chose not to act on it. She may not know much about fighting beyond what he had insisted she learn, but she could read the restraint in his movements. The carefully guarded, tightly-held control he had over his emotions when he acted as their hitter. Control was everything to Eliot. He'd told her himself during that awful gym job in Nebraska.

She fervently hoped she wasn't wrong. A foreboding shiver went up her spine.

Eliot threw a blanket at her.


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: Not mine.

"No exit down here, Mr. Ford."

Nate froze.

He turned his head slowly to see a small, shadowy figure move into the room. She sidestepped forward, clearing the corners with a glance. It was just the two of them. And she had him dead to rights, gun pointed at his head. He knows she'll pull the trigger. It's obviously her job.

He briefly wondered why Eliot didn't mention a professional hitman—er, woman when he discussed building security. Seemed like a hell of a thing to miss.

The woman was dressed for movement. Brown hair pulled back, dark colors, skin tight top, fitted pants with a holster for her Glock tied to her thigh. Nate doesn't doubt she has other weapons as back up. He tried not to think about where; her outfit didn't leave much to the imagination.

She's watching him, assessing. He's seen that look before. It takes him a few seconds to place. Then wonders why he didn't recognize it quicker. He's seen it from Eliot...who is far from here. In another part of building. Taking care of the hired help. Too far to be of any help. Nate's mouth went dry and he wished for a drink.

"I'd appreciate it if you'd remove your earbud, Mr. Ford."

He blinks. Strangely, his mind supplies a picture of the team in his living room watching that ridiculous Matrix movie with its Mr. Anderson nonsense that Hardison made them watch. Team bonding, he'd call it. Mind-numbing, is what Nate called it. Sam would have liked it though. His heart ached momentarily.

His soon-to-be killer tilted her head slightly.

"Now, please." Her tone is cold and sharp.

He slowly reached up and removed the comm. He's slightly off balance by her manners. Somehow, he never pictured assassins requiring those skills. He holds out the comm, enticing her to take it from him. She doesn't.

"The floor will do nicely."

Well, it was worth a try.

He slowly placed it on the ground and backed up, hands in the air. She moved forward and stomped on it. Hard. He winced, imagining what the others heard. The high pitched screech ripping through your ear canal was quite excruciating and was an excellent notification of trouble. At least they'd know something went wrong. There were no cameras for Hardison to check in this part of the basement so Eliot would probably find his body first. Nate grimaced morbidly; Eliot would keep the others from seeing him. Parker and Hardison didn't need to see what happened after meeting an assassin. And Sophie… God, Sophie! He had so much he wanted to tell her but it never seemed like the right time. It never was between them.

The killer brunette hasn't moved; her gun hasn't moved either. Nate realizes she's studying him like a puzzle she's trying to solve. Her expression hasn't changed, but the tension in the air feels different.

Nate reads the conflict in her eyes and stays motionless.

Maybe…just maybe he can get out of this without resorting to Plan J, L or R through Z.


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: Not mine.

She pressed her back to the wall, breathing quietly. She wanted to peek around the corner but the echo of footsteps told her the intruder was facing towards her position. She didn't know if this guy was armed. Better to wait.

On a positive note, there was only one set of footsteps. On the reverse, from the way he was muttering under his breath, he was either as crazy as that damn cat or had a comm unit…and a team. She hoped it was the latter. Crazy people were hard as hell to predict.

A few more seconds and the footsteps turned away. She rounded the corner, leading with her Glock. It didn't take much to identify the intruder and see he was unarmed. To be honest, she found she wasn't too surprised to see him here.

He didn't recognize her but definitely recognized what she did. He followed her orders and removed his earpiece but seemed oddly distracted. She supposed staring at the business end of a silencer would make anyone act odd. Well, anyone _normal_. He actually held out his comm like he wanted her to take it. She almost snorted. Nice try.

After destroying his earpiece and vindictively hoping that whoever was on the other end had a headache the size of Russia now, she stepped back and sighted down the barrel then..._hesitated_.

_Why was she hesitating?_ The professional in her was screaming at her to shoot and calculating her exit route. The more rational part of her mind forced her to think through the consequences of that action and stopped her from squeezing the trigger.

If Eliot found out—no, _when_ Eliot found out—she pulled the trigger, he would come after her. He'd find her too. She didn't doubt that. Those zeros on her paycheck were tantalizing but they wouldn't protect her from a vengeful Spencer. She wasn't a fool. She knew what happened to Moreau. _That_ idiot got off easy. However, he didn't kill anyone on Eliot's team. Her outcome would be unbelievably darker… and probably messier.

It was more than that though. She had no fight with Nate Ford nor a desire to start one. Her employer did. The pompous ass was trying to con the conman into stealing the security program for him. She'd figured out his little plan weeks ago. At the time, it hadn't made a difference to her. She didn't know who the mark was. Now, she sure as hell wasn't going down for the lecherous ass, especially since she was damn sure that if Ford died, his team would rain death and destruction on everyone involved like a plague of Egypt.

She also couldn't come up with an acceptable explanation for why Ford seemed so shocked to find—well, someone like her—in the basement. Or in the building at all. Surely Eliot would have identified her as a threat, disguised or not. It wasn't even that great of a disguise in the first place. Wigs were annoying and itchy. He should've at least recognized the reason for the heavy security upgrades in the last month. So why, _why_ didn't he tell his team?

What the _hell_ was going on?

She cursed mentally as she stared at Nate across her Glock. She'd never met him before but Nate Ford was a known man in the business. She recognized the unimposing ex-insurance man from surveillance photos. Tall, slim, obviously not built for the kind of life she led. Or that Eliot led. Or _used_ to lead. Whatever. She'd almost call him weak if it wasn't for the steel in his stare and his not-so-unimpressive reputation. He wasn't afraid of her. Or the gun. He wasn't frozen in fear. He was…calculating.

_That_ got her attention.

Calculating what exactly? If he could dodge her bullet? If he could attack her? No, he was too smart for that. She'd kill him.

He was calculating how long it would take before someone showed up.

Like Eliot.

She lowered her gun. She stared at him for a few seconds before making what was no doubt the stupidest decision of her career. She tilted her head and spoke into her radio.

"Basement clear. Found evidence of a window escape. Check perimeter outside east wing, section 8, block D4. Get men over there now!"

A voice crackled an affirmative. She stepped to the closest window and smashed it with the butt of her gun.

Nate didn't move.

She glanced at her watch.

"You have two minutes and 37 seconds to get upstairs. Third floor, second corridor, third door on the right, six workstations down. Your hacker can do the rest."

Nate still didn't move. He just stared at her with those ice blue eyes.

If she wasn't a professional, she would have shifted uncomfortably. There was something weighing, measuring in his gaze. As it was, she stared coldly back at him. He didn't ask why she was helping him. Or thank her. Or try and sell her some silly platitude about how she was helping the good guys. Thank goodness. She would have shot him.

"Two minutes 13 seconds." Maybe he _was_ crazy.

He moved toward the stairs, quicker than she expected, but hesitated by the doorway.

"A professional does their job well even when they don't like it."

Then he was gone, racing up the stairwell. She raised her eyebrows, unsure whether to feel complimented or insulted and holstered her gun.

Yeah, she was gonna go with crazy.


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Eliot scowled at the unexpected problem.

It wasn't as though they didn't encounter problems on every job. This one was just…unexpected.

The problem wasn't Sophie who'd finished distracting Novikoff and slipped out of the building. She was settled in the driver seat and informed them she was ready for the getaway. He wasn't completely comfortable with Sophie driving. Getting to the rendezvous' in one piece _was_ the goal, after all.

Hardison had never left the van in the first place and Parker was currently repelling down the building with enthusiasm. He glanced at a shadow falling swiftly outside the window closest to him. ETA: three minutes.

Nate was the problem.

Nate was missing. He was six minutes past his arrival time. His earpiece had gone dead, nearly deafening the rest of the crew over 20 minutes ago. Eliot noted Hardison's estimate of Nate's last known location.

The basement.

Why the hell was he down there? Eliot would be the last out—or should have been—but no one had seen or heard from Nate since the earpiece blew up. Hardison said it was completely destroyed, not just broken. That ruled out any accidents.

Eliot finished knocking out the last of the goons blocking his exit and calculated how long it would take him to get to the basement from his position. Too long. Damn this building and its maze of corridors. Eliot would never admit it, but without Hardison telling him where to go, he'd have missed his position.

He tuned out Parker's crazy talk as she finished repelling and Sophie's frantic questions, then ordered radio silence and told them to hold their positions. He'd find Nate. Hardison informed him of the timeline and said he'd contact him if Nate came back online.

Only Sophie's quiet words in his ear of "Find him Eliot" brought a moment of regret. He should have told them about _her_. He had a sinking feeling about what happened to Nate. He really hoped not, but Eliot was nothing if not realistic about their chances. He'd expected her to find _him_, not Nate.

"Eliot," Hardison squeaked in an obviously unsuccessful attempt to stay calm. "A chick just called the guards to the East side, D wing about a broken window and someone fleeing. They're sending a whole goon squad to check the perimeter."

A few second later, he continued in surprise.

"Whoaaa, they responded way too quickly. Either these goons are secretly super soldiers or they scared of losing their cajones if they don't catch whoever did it." Hardison paused and took a breath. "Eliot, I don't remember there being a chick on the employment roster. There wasn't, was there? I could have missed it. Please tell me I missed it. Anyone?"

"I don't remember a girl's name," Parker piped up. "Unless it was one of the manly girl names like Taylor or Jesse or Frank."

"Frank?"

Eliot could practically hear Hardison's eyebrows jumping off his forehead.

"What the hell kind of girl name is 'Frank'? You know what, no. I ain't gonna ask. Just tell me this isn't gonna be a problem..." He left his question open.

Eliot didn't respond. He was already two floors down and plowing through three guard patrols. He still wasn't even close to the basement.

"Perhaps Novikoff hired addition security off the books?" Sophie supplied quietly. She knew Eliot didn't need their conversation in his ear while fighting but couldn't help herself.

"Maybe…"Hardison hedged. "He'd probably have to pay cash for it though since his accounts don't have enough to—whooooaaaa! Eliot, we got a problem."

"Little busy, Hardison. Just tell me!" Eliot snapped under his breath, eying his next opponent.

"Novikoff transferred a ridiculously large amount of money into an off-shore account about four months ago. I didn't see it earlier since it's buried behind an unreasonably paranoid amount of shell companies. Either he's gonna cut and run or he hired somebody. Do we know if he hired someone? 'Cause he seems like the type to cut and run, right? I really, really, _really_ want to go with that option."

Eliot was a too busy to reply as the last guard patrol had a guy built like a freaking mountain.

"Wait…wait, wait, wait! Aha!" Hardison cackled. "Nate made it! He placed the bug on the terminal. I've got everything! Oh yeah, baby! This Russian ain't got nothing on me. Two minutes and I'll have all the evidence of Novikoff's little attempt at a missile crisis all bundled up for Interpol."

Eliot rolled his eyes and abandoned his path to the basement. As he moved swiftly towards his pick-up point he grimaced.

Something didn't add up.


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Nate's shoulder hurt. _A lot._ Getting shot was hell. Thank goodness Eliot's triage skills were up to par and Hardison ensured they carried a full medical pack everywhere they went. It seemed inevitable someone always needed it. Usually it was Eliot, which meant there were twice as many ice packs and compresses inside.

Nate supposed he'd been lucky. While embarrassing and unpleasant, getting shot by an idiot guard was infinitely preferred to being shot in the head. He didn't miss the irony of being shot by a goon after being left alive by an assassin.

Speaking of which, he was still working out why she let him go. Maybe that's why he hadn't mentioned her yet. Eliot looked like he wanted to say something about it but had only scowled fiercely at him and set it aside for more pressing matters. Like stitching Nate's shoulder closed.

Hardison sat in the passenger seat babbling non-stop to Sophie, breathing through his mouth, no doubt to keep from fainting at the sight of so much blood. Parker was watching Eliot stitch his shoulder up with a creepy kind of intensity. It hurt too much to tell her to knock it off.

The next step of the plan required him to be mobile so Eliot had to treat him fast. They only had thirty minutes before they had to meet with Sterling.

* * *

There were two systems of thinking when a job involved Sterling.

On the positive side, they got the satisfaction of knowing that any success Sterling inevitably laid claim to was by no means his and they weren't about to let him forget it.

On the negative side…they had to _work_ with Sterling.

Nate may not like the man but he had a healthy respect for his abilities. Sterling leaned towards heavy-handed aggression and fear tactics. He was smart, no denying that, but his system of thinking had a linear quality about it. It was easy to predict. Well, at least it was to Nate. Then again, he did work with him for quite a few years. Still, Sterling's' irritating superiority complex approach had served him well in his career. He knew what to say to get a reaction. It was working on Parker and Hardison. It _wasn't_ working on Eliot.

Interesting.

While normally Sterling's mere presence was enough to make Eliot's blood boil, today it was merely an annoyance. Sterling's customary taunts and jibes made Hardison splutter and Parker heft the hangman's noose she'd unconsciously tied while coiling her repelling gear. Hardison tugged Parker toward the van with promises of fortune cookies after realizing what she held.

Eliot frowned at the man, and then proceeded to ignore him completely. Nate was positive Sterling derived enjoyment out of provoking his team into a response and no response was disturbing Sterling's delicate internal balance.

Nate's amusement was short-lived though as Sterling quickly turned his attention to Nate, who then went through the unpleasant task of handing over the evidence to Sterling and his Interpol cronies. Everything Hardison tracked, hacked, and traced was in the briefcase. Interpol would be able to lock Novikoff up for a very long time with the information provided.

Of course, Hardison had made sure all of it appeared as though it had been gained through entirely boring, legal means and couldn't be traced to or used against the Leverage team in any way, shape or form. They weren't taking any chances. Sterling could be a vindictive bastard..

All in all, a successful mission. Well, besides the whole getting shot thing. And the assassin thing. He really needed to talk to Eliot about that. Okay, so maybe it didn't pan out exactly the way he planned, but no job ever stayed on Plan A from beginning to end. No bodies and only an aching gunshot wound? He was taking that as a win.


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: Not mine.

After the job was finished, her employer ruined, she skipped town with as much money as she could get her hands on. Turns out Ford's little team of super thieves had drained the man dry. He was leaking corporate secrets to the authorities like a sieve; she couldn't exactly demand the rest of her payout now.

Damn.

Cops were circling like vultures. The hired muscle had been arrested. She'd heard enough over the radio before dodging the police to know that a crazy blonde had stolen the program from under their noses, noses that were broken by a man with a ponytail, and then the system locked down with them still inside.

Huh, clever. Eliot's team had skills. Bat-crap crazy, but talented. She could respect that.

It wasn't until three countries, four identities, and two glasses of wine later that she thought about Ford's words. She bit down her frustration as she tried to push away the realization that his words struck a chord. "A professional does their job well even when they don't like it." he'd said. Well, she was sure as hell a professional. She didn't do half-assed jobs or quit. Even when s_he didn't like it._

She practically gulped her wine. When had _that_ happened? She didn't use to care. It was a job. She liked the money. The thrill of adrenaline.

Now it was consuming her life. She couldn't separate. Everything was running together. She couldn't sleep. She barely ate. She wasn't coping. Drinking was tolerable but she wasn't much of a drinker. Drinking slowed her reflexes, messed with her balance, clouded her mind; she didn't like it.

She lowered her head into her hands, massaging her temples. Maybe that's what Ford was trying to say—professionals knew when to stop. Why the hell was she listening to him in the first place? Who the hell said crap like that to someone who had a gun on them? She should have shot him.

Alarms went off in her head and she had her Glock trained on the door before she even registered the second knock. She stood quickly and moved to the side of the door. She waited for a moment. No more knocking. She cursed silently. _Not room service then._ She scanned the room, noting which furniture to avoid and which could be used as cover and/or weapons on the way to her exit. She was just about to move away when a voice stopped her.

"Open the door, Lacey."

She froze. Realizing her mouth was open, she clamped it shut and peeked through the peep-hole. Well, that wasn't a coincidence. In all honesty, she probably should have seen this coming. She blamed it on the very expensive bottle of wine sitting smugly on the desk. Damn thing was practically chuckling. Nevertheless, there he was, standing in her the hallway. Blue pearl snap shirt, worn denim jeans, brown leather jacket, and his ridiculously perfect hair falling around his shoulders.

How the hell did he find her?

She bit her lip and had a bitter two-second, internal debate, then unlocked the door. She moved back quickly, her Glock trained at eye level. Eliot pushed the door open and moved inside. He didn't try to move further into the room after closing the door, just stood there with his hands clearly visible.

Her gun didn't move. Since it was clear he wasn't going to start this conversation (although she _really_ thought he should) she voiced the red-letter question swirling through her head.

"You here to kill me, Eliot?"

"I ain't in the business anymore." he scowled.

She raised an eyebrow incredulously and didn't bother trying to hide her skepticism. "So you were in Russia the same week of my contract, the same city, the same building." She narrowed her eyes. "I don't believe in coincidence, Spencer."

"Damn it, Lacey! I ain't here to kill ya." If anything, his scowl deepened.

"Then why are you here?"

His reply stopped her in her tracks as she moved towards her exit.

"I know what you did."

_Damn_ Nate Ford. This was going to _ruin_ her reputation.

"He didn't say anything."

_Damn_ Eliot and his _damn_ mind reading.

"He was very careful to leave you out, in fact. " He paused. "You didn't kill him."

It was a statement. No, it was a question. Statement with an inferred question. A stated question. Son of a _seabiscuit_, her head hurt. Apparently, her thought process went down the drain after a few drinks. When she didn't respond, he continued.

"You had a contract with Novikoff. Kill anyone tryin' to take the program. You didn't. I never heard of you leavin' a job undone."

She lowered her gun and realized she'd stopped moving. _When did that happen?_ Cursing was proving futile and apparently so was the gun. And she was only 70% sure only she could see the fog in the room.

"If you're not here to kill me, then get out."

He didn't move. He just stood there like a statue. A damn statue that looked incredibly good in that jacket. _He'd look damn good out of it too_, her mind supplied. She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts.

She was seriously rethinking that second glass of wine. Geez, she was such a light-weight.

"I need to know if you had a reason, Lace." He narrowed his eyes at her and it was positively menacing. Or it should have been to someone who didn't know him like she did or maybe it was because she felt kinda floaty. Eh, either one. "Was it part of your plan?"

"If I wanted him dead, he'd be dead, Eliot." She replied coolly.

He blinked slowly as though her words confirmed something. Damn mind games. He was fishing for information. She desperately wanted to rub her forehead to push away the building headache.

"So it's finished." His tone suggested suspicion and it was annoying the hell out of her.

"Novikoff paid for half a job. I did half a job." She wasn't in the mood for his words games.

"You're the professional here." He stated a little too nonchalantly.

Suddenly it felt like she'd been plunged in cold water and her anger at the whole damn situation boiled over.

"Where the _hell_ do you get off assuming you know my life? What the hell gives you, of all people, the right to judge me, Eliot Spencer?"

She moved forward angrily and noted with satisfaction that he tensed considerably at her approach. _Good_, she thought viciously.

"You with your 'I'm out of the business' bullshit. If I'd pulled the trigger, if I'd done my job, you would be here, right now, ready to kill me. Probably with your little team of Robin Hood thieves too." She sneered nastily, "You can lie to yourself all you want, Spencer, but you haven't changed. You're a killer. You'll always be a killer. And it'll be their blood that pays for it."

Then the last thing she expected to happen, happened.

Eliot flinched.


	15. Chapter 15

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Eliot silently cursed the involuntary movement.

Flinching was the worst possible mistake to make in front of a woman who could read him just as well, if not better, than Sophie. Especially since this information, in the hands of the right people (people she undoubtedly knew), could be incredibly dangerous for the Leverage team and very lucrative for her. It was uncanny that even years later and while she was obviously drunk, she managed to pick up on the weakest point in his armor. _Stupid, stupid move, Spencer._ He berated himself. Tradecraft 101: Don't show emotion. The moment you do, someone has power over you.

Eliot's past answer to this was to not feel anything. Don't _show_ anything…ever.

Don't show panic and fear when Moreau pushed Hardison into a pool, handcuffed to a heavy chair. Don't show protectiveness for Parker (the closest thing he had to a younger sister) when the wannabe psychic did that cold-read on her and reduced to her tears. Don't show camaraderie or friendly competitiveness with Sophie. Don't show the respect and friendship that had grown between him and Nate.

The truth, though? Her words hit closer to the truth than he'd ever admitted.

She nodded and backed away as she realized she wasn't going to get a more honest answer. He considered several responses to her harsh analysis but decided to not to voice them. It would only sound like a weak denial because _she was right._

Eliot always hated how easy it was for him to be a killer. How good he was at it. Thanks to Moreau, he knew just how easy—way too easy—it was to slip back into that role. He loathed how a part of him he just couldn't silence—no matter how many jobs he did, no matter how many good deeds he performed—enjoyed it. Enjoyed the devastation, the pain, the death that came so easily. It was no surprise he'd ended up working for someone like Moreau. It was a miracle he'd left. It made him sick to think the very thing he hated most about himself had almost killed his team. It had also saved them. On more than one occasion too. It was an irreconcilable aptitude that would never go away.

He'd tried—God, how he'd tried—to make the team realize he was capable of actions that would make anyone (well, anyone normal) look at him with disgust. They were all as stubborn as mules and refused to understand what kind of man he was. He wasn't sure if they just dismissed his words out of a morbid sense of humor or purposely ignored him. He hated to admit how a part of him was incredibly relieved that they did.

As for Lacey, she had her own memory horror show going on. It was written all over her face, even though she tried to hide it. _She always did have a crappy poker face when drunk._ He spotted the practically full bottle of wine. _Still a lightweight, too. _He didn't remember her being this worn down though. Granted, it'd been three or four years since they'd last seen each other.

_Just before the L.A. job._ He realized with surprise.

She'd lost weight and seemed exhausted. The kind of exhausted that wasn't just physical, but the bone-deep, mind-numbing weariness that came with the guilt of a past littered with bodies and blood. He was personally familiar with that one.

He knew she'd been avoiding the States. At first, he'd thought it was because it was too dangerous to work in the states and more lucrative overseas, but now he realized she was avoiding any contracts that would have brought her in contact with his team. He could name at least three jobs where he wouldn't have been surprised to find her involved. It didn't make sense. She'd never showed any sign of problems with her life. She'd always been fine—.

Suddenly, it made sense. The exhaustion. The anger. The drinking. The jobs she never took in the states. The reason she hadn't killed Nate.

She wanted out.


	16. Chapter 16

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Even in her inebriated state, she was surprised to see that strong of a reaction. It wasn't like Eliot Spencer to give away that kind of information to anyone, ever. _Huh, must have hit a nerve._ She was positive he didn't want her knowing any of it considering how tightly his jaw was clenched. She couldn't bring herself to regret her words though. It may suck, but it was the truth.

She back away from him when she realized she wasn't going to get another response. He probably had several impressive threats on the tip of his tongue and half a dozen moves to take her out but she still held a gun and Eliot wasn't stupid.

Suddenly, his shoulders and jaw relaxed.

"You want out, don't you?"

Again with the stupid statement questions? Her brain was already pounding mercilessly against her temples like an inmate with a jackhammer.

"Of course not!" she snapped.

_Seriously? _She thought angrily. What idiot thought you actually left this business? You didn't leave this business, you never leave this business. It just follows you around, waiting for the moment when karma strikes back for all the crap you've done in your life.

"Then why didn't you pull the trigger?"

"I…I...uh…damn." Lacey muttered. She'd been trying really hard _not_ to think about _why. _It wasn't something she'd wanted to examine while drunk. Or sober. Or at all. _Oh, what the hell._

"Fine. I want out." She slumped into her previously abandoned chair and finally gave in to temptation and massaged her temples with one hand.

"Alright."

She looked at him incredulously. Bat-crap crazy must be contagious.

"_Alright_? That's all you can say? '_Alright_!'" She mimicked his deep voice, knowing full well she sounded childish but blamed it entirely on the hellish bottle of wine sitting innocently beside her. "_Sure Lace, it's easy to just waltz away from this kind of life. Piece of cake. I did it_."

She let out an unladylike snort. _Right_. She glanced sideways at Eliot who slowly sat down on the edge of the bed on the opposite side of the room. He was carefully to keep his hands where she could see them. Always the smart one.

"So what do I do, Eliot? What do I do then? Give up my gun and join the white knight, do-gooder club like you, Spencer?" She thought she'd managed to infuse a healthy amount of sarcasm into her voice since she couldn't seem to stop the words from tumbling out.

He frowned slightly but otherwise didn't respond. Damn him.

"Are you serious, Lacey? About getting out?"

She didn't move her hand from her temple. Did she want out? Did she _really_ want out? How the hell was she supposed to do that? She'd built a reputation for herself. Enough of one that people would notice if she just up and disappeared. She had three contracts currently in negotiations that would mean hell to pay if she suddenly backed out. So how was she supposed to just leave it behind? She couldn't think straight, much less come up with an exit plan for the hot mess that was her life.

She realized she was nodding. Apparently the damn wine knew her answer before she did. _  
_

Eliot was quiet again, apparently thinking. She watched him through her fingers. His blank expression would have been hard for anyone else to interpret but she knew it for what it was: a mask. She couldn't figure out, for life or money, why the _hell_ anyone _ever_ underestimated Eliot Spencer. It seemed completely obvious to her, even while drunk, just how dangerous he was. It was a true testament to his skills that he presented the 'just the muscle' persona to the world. She wasn't fooled into thinking that just because she held a gun on him he couldn't do anything. Eliot Spencer was never helpless. If he went quiet, then you'd better run.

"I think…I think I'm gonna have to kill you."

Her brain muddled through his words for two agonizing seconds before she had her Glock trained between his eyes.

He didn't move. He literally froze. He made absolutely no movement, not wanting to spook her slightly befuddled trigger finger.

"Hear me out, Lacey. We make it look like you took a contract on my team and I found out. It's close enough to the truth and the only guy who could give details is rotting in a Russian prison. Even then, what can he say? That he hired you to kill anyone who tried takin' that program and it happened to be us? You disappear. Start over somewhere. You got a back-up plan? Use it. Drop off the radar. Stay off. If you don't have enough squirreled away, I'll get you started."

She stared at him, dumbfounded at his offer, probably looking like a fish.

"_Why_? _Why_ would you help _me_? What do you get out of this, Spencer?"

"You could've have pulled that trigger, Lacey. We'd be in a far worse situation if you had. You didn't though. Consider it returnin' the favor."

She struggled to find words for the scrambled mess in her mind. No one _ever_ offered to help her. _Ever_. To her complete surprise, she found she _wanted_ to trust him. She didn't yet, but she _wanted_ too. Huh, that was a new feeling.

"Best way to gain trust is to give it." He replied sagely.

Crap. Did she just say that last part out loud? What did _that_ even mean? She wasn't sure if he was talking to her or to himself. Spencer obviously spent way too much time with Nate Ford and his hellishly cryptic phrases. Maybe it was a team thing?

_Screw it. _

Her mind shifted gears. Ways of leaving the country under the radar, identities she'd have to burn, caches of weapons she'd need to move all raced to the forefront. She'd have to move her money, but how to do that if she was considered dead?

Even though she hadn't said a word, Eliot seemed to sense her decision.

"Let me make a few calls."

She nodded distractedly and tugged the wine bottle closer. She was probably going to regret this later.

She listened in silent awe as he called several contacts and, in a completely nonthreatening manner, threatened them with all their worst nightmares if they didn't tell him her whereabouts. His vague insinuations were terrifying and she tried not to be too surprised at the number of contacts that gave her up. Oh well, she'd never really been the friendly type anyway.

Ten minutes later, he hung up.

"Your turn." He turned to her, still in the desk chair, hugging her wine. "Leave town. Go through five or six cities, countries, wherever you're known. Talk to your contacts. Make it look like you're running.

"Not my first rodeo, Spencer." She rose and began stuffing things at random into her bags, purposefully skipping items and making an artfully construed mess. She fished through the bag and retrieved a rumpled shirt and jeans from the bag. She quickly changed and was moderately amused to find that Eliot was still a gentleman and looked pointedly away. She buttoned the jeans and pulled on a pair of boots.

Eliot continued, "I'll meet you in Spain. Reina Sofia Hotel in two weeks."

Lacey fished her hotel key from her jacket pocket and threw it on the table. She grabbed the neck of the bottle and gulped another mouthful before knocking it over to let it spill on the chair and floor. She ruffled up her hair, threw her haphazardly packed bag over her shoulder, and gave him a saucy salute.

"Try not to enjoy this too much, Spencer."

Then she was out the door and running down the hall for the stairs, making a concentrated effort to move in a straight line. She hit the stairwell door. _Oh well._ She sighed. Gracefulness (and apparently her sanity) was lost on her the moment she'd opened that bottle.

In the room, standing in the scattered mess, Eliot grinned.


End file.
